


Steam Burst

by alcibiades



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Oral Sex, Roughness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:11:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1565816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcibiades/pseuds/alcibiades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Root turns her head slowly in Shaw’s grip, feeling individual strands of hair as they break. There are teardrops caught on the ends of her lashes, but they’re involuntary tears, just a physical reaction she can’t control. Instinct. “You don’t have to lie to me,” she says. “You don’t have a life, Shaw. You gave that away to the government a long time ago. Why are you so angry at me? Is it because I threatened you and got away? Or is it because you were excited?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steam Burst

Root doesn’t know how they got to this point but she’s not complaining - it’s certainly more interesting than fucking Nathan Ingram ever was, not to say that he didn’t _try._ Shaw’s hand is fisted in her hair, pulling her head back. Her neck is exposed, vulnerable, and she can feel her own pulse rattling against her skin like it’s trying to escape. She’s always found women to be a bigger challenge than men, the feminine libido being generally more wrapped up in the psyche than the male, and the thing about Root is that it’s not the sex that appeals to her so much as it is the challenge.

Her mouth is open just slightly, her tongue pressed against the back of her teeth, and her eyes are watering from the sting of Shaw’s hand in her hair. When she exhales, a thin noise, a noise like an animal in pain, leaks out of her mouth. It sounds like the kind of noise that a rabbit would make if it were caught in the jaws of a wolf, except neither of them are rabbits. “You were going to put an iron on my face,” Shaw hisses, her mouth pressed against Root’s ear. Her thighs are pressed against either side of Root’s ribcage, holding her there, warm and solid with muscle.

"You were going to enjoy it," Root whispers back to her. Her fingers dig into Shaw’s thighs, so hard that the nail polish is chipping, the oxblood gloss flaking off to reveal soft pink nail bed beneath. Her bare arms are covered in goosebumps, and each breath makes her ache and shudder. "You wanted to play my game just as much as I did."

"It’s not a game," Shaw says. "It’s my life."

Root turns her head slowly in Shaw’s grip, feeling individual strands of hair as they break. There are teardrops caught on the ends of her lashes, but they’re involuntary tears, just a physical reaction she can’t control. Instinct. “You don’t have to lie to me,” she says. “You don’t have a life, Shaw. You gave that away to the government a long time ago. Why are you so angry at me? Is it because I threatened you and got away? Or is it because you were excited?”

She catches Shaw’s lower lip between her teeth before she’s finished the last syllable and the two roads that diverge in her mind as far as Shaw’s reaction are momentarily irreconcilable - she briefly considers that she may have gotten herself killed, but if she has then it was bound to happen and there was nothing she could do to stop it. There is that split second where she wonders, _have I finally bitten off more than I could chew,_ looking into Shaw’s dark, dark eyes, thinking that maybe her mother was right in the end, and then Shaw’s hands are on her.

Shaw has been watching her for weeks and Root isn’t stupid, but she is resourceful. The thin white t-shirt, the lacy black underwear, these were for Shaw’s benefit, or her own - either way. Shaw’s hands slide up under the shirt, her calluses dragging against Root’s skin, thumbs slipping over her ribs like playing a xylophone. Her tongue is in Root’s mouth, her lips velvety against Root’s, soft where her fingers are not.

The grip of her thighs against Root’s sides loosens and slips downward as Shaw flattens herself against Root, sinuous and easy as a cat. Shaw’s hands slide back down Root’s ribs and stomach, flattening against the crests of her pelvis for a moment, and she breaks the kiss, pulling away. Her eyes are so dark, black as singularities in the dim light, her lower lip shiny with saliva. Her thumbs hook into Root’s shirt and pull it up, inch by inch. The air in the room is cold, and goosebumps follow in its wake, Root’s back arched and her ribs fluttering with each shallow breath. Shaw keeps going until the shirt is rucked up under Root’s armpits, and the way she looks at Root’s naked torso makes Root’s pussy clench on nothing, an aching emptiness she’s only ever fleetingly aware of.

She puts one hand in Shaw’s hair and angles her face to meet her gaze for a moment before pushing her down. Shaw goes willingly, and as the flat of her tongue presses against Root’s nipple and draws something tight inside of her, Root slides her other hand into her panties and touches herself, rubbing the knuckle of her first finger against her clit.

Normally she doesn’t make a lot of noise; normally there is a performance, theatricality for the sake of her partner. It’s not that she doesn’t enjoy it, but rarely for its own sake - there’s an art to making someone else enjoy you as much as possible, and she likes to think she’s good at it. But Shaw’s teeth close on her nipple and she puts two fingers inside herself and realizes that she is making noises, those same little rabbitlike noises that make her wonder who this is that she’s pretending to be.

She undulates against the bed, wrapping her legs around Shaw, and Shaw bites down harder, sending white sparks flying through her. She flattens her hand against the top of Shaw’s head and pushes down again, harder, until Shaw’s mouth leaves her breasts and slides down her belly. She yanks Root’s hand out of the way, grinding the bones together, and doesn’t even pull her panties off, just puts her face against Root’s cunt. Her breath is hot, and she rubs her tongue against the lace, right where Root wants it, except it’s not enough, so she pulls Shaw to the side and yanks them off herself.

Shaw doesn’t have to be pushed or pulled back down; her hands are on Root’s thighs, spreading them until Root groans and the muscle trembles, and she is dragging her tongue against Root’s clit, slow and deliberate, and Root doesn’t sound like a frightened rabbit anymore, she sounds like she’s dying, being torn apart, turned inside out. She wonders if this is what it feels like to die, if this is the thrill you feel just before it all goes dark. There must be some kind of reward that makes so many people believe in heaven, believe it’s all worth it, and if this isn’t what it feels like — Shaw’s hot mouth, her tongue, inside Root, fucking her like Nathan Ingram only ever wished he could —

Her body goes tight, all the muscles standing out in stark relief, and when release comes, it’s like surfacing from a cold sea and inhaling deep, so deep. Her fingertips, the ends of her hair feel electric, like the machine she wishes sometimes that she could be. Like something omniscient. Shaw pulls away and looks up at her and Root reaches for the phone and hits the button for security in a single movement, meeting Shaw’s eyes as the light flashes red.

"They’ll be here in thirty seconds," Root says. Her voice is hoarse in a way that pleases her. She smiles. Shaw looks actually, really taken aback, the first time — and probably the last — Root has ever seen this expression on her. "You’d better get going."

Shaw doesn’t need to be told twice, and Root watches her, bemused, pulling her underwear up, tugging her t-shirt down. She’s at the door, and she turns to look back for a moment; her face is a mask that even Root couldn’t hope to read. “I’m glad I didn’t have to use the iron,” Root says, consideringly, twisting the knife that was sharp enough to pierce even Samantha Shaw’s armor. “It would have been a shame to ruin such a pretty face.”

The door doesn’t make a sound.


End file.
